


My Heart Will Go On

by Danagirl623



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Brotherly Love, Crossover, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Irish Language, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Physical Abuse, RMS Titanic, Sherlock Holmes Is Not Okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:02:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23386303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Danagirl623/pseuds/Danagirl623
Summary: A titantic-inspired JohnLock love story.I really don't know what to say about this. I'm an idoit who started something that was too big for me to finish and I'm an attention whore?As I write more, I will add more tags, etc. As of right now, there's no end in site.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes looked out the window of the hansom and exhaled loudly. He refused to speak to the occupants of the cab as they continued to talk about him as if he wasn’t there. Everyone was here because of who he was, and yet, they treated him like a willful child. 

A clammy hand laid on his and it took everything in him not to shake it off. “William, do pay attention when we’re talking to you,” his fiance said, in a slight irish accent. 

“I shan’t pay attention when I'm being discussed as if I’m not here.”

“William,” His brother said in a thick ‘I’m disappointed in you’ tone. 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock said, with venom in his voice. “I’m twenty eight years old. You are no longer my manager-”

“I am your brother and the only other person on this earth that loves you. Ever since Mummy and Daddy died, you’ve done everything you could to thwart me.” Mycroft shook his head disappointingly. “Good luck, Mr. Moriarty. He is a high-spirited filly and breaking him has been damn near impossible.” 

“I do love a challenge.” 

“I am a human being, I am not some high strung mare to break!” Sherlock said, his voice rising in panic. 

The cab rolled to a stop, and Sherlock jumped out before anyone could stop him. Jim watched him disappear into the crowd and smirked. “Mr. Moran?” he asked, without verbalizing his command. Jim’s man-servant disappeared into the crowd, keeping a fair distance behind Sherlock. Jim turned to Mycroft, and grinned widely. 

“Don’t worry about him, Mr. Holmes. Seb hasn’t lost him yet.”

“All I do anymore is worry about my brother, Mr. Morarity.” 

“Let me handle him, Mr. Holmes. I won’t disappoint you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Morarity. It’s already a weight off my chest.” Mycroft turned towards the gigantic ship and whistled appreciatively. “That’s a huge ship.”

“The best there is, Mr. Holmes. Nothing’s too good for my William.”

“You truly are the kindest man,” Mycroft said, as he directed the ship staff what to take to where. 

Jim stared at Seb’s retreating back and pursed his lips in thought. “Mr. Holmes, ah!” He said, catching the crew scurry around them. “Please, allow me to handle this. Boy! You there!” 

A small, trim Irish lad made eye contact with Jim. “Me, sir?” 

“Yes, you boy. Help the crew with the luggage. There’s a guinea in it for you.”

“I’m not able to, sir. I’ve got to get on Titanic! The ship of dreams!” The irish lad said, as he took off. 

Jim cursed softly under his breath, before he offered his arm to Mycroft. “Come on, then, Mr. Holmes. I’ll escort you to the room.” Jim pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket before he pressed them into a crewman’s open hand. “Spread that amongst your fellows. If you make sure these bags get to the correct suite, there’s another twenty pounds in it for you.” 

Mycroft took Jim’s arm, and the pair primly made their way through the crowd. The immense expanse of the ship made quite an impression on Mycroft and he mentioned it as they strolled to their suite. 

Jim smiled to himself and verbally acknowledged how clever Mycroft is. The porter let them into the room. Jim followed Mycroft who sighed loudly, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sherlock, put some trousers on.”

Sherlock smirked at his brother. “I’m going swimming.” 

“The hell you are!” 

Jim stepped in between Sherlock and Mycroft. He held his finger up to Mycroft, “May I speak with my darling fiance?” Mycroft took a deep breath, and nodded his head.

“I’m going to the spare bedroom. I think I need to rest before we sup.” 

Jim watched him go, and pointed his head to the door in a silent command for Seb to beat it. Jim strode across the room, and shut the door. He slid the lock into place, and turned to face the young man lounging on the couch. Slowly he walked over to him, and kneeled down by Sherlock’s angular face. Jim took Sherlock’s cheeks in between his fingers and pressed hard. Sherlock whined low in his throat, and tried to wiggle free.

“Do not move,” Jim instructed in a deadly voice. Sherlock stopped wiggling. “Your actions are not appropriate. How shall I fix this?” Sherlock squeaked this time, shaking his head. “Oh, have you suddenly decided to behave yourself?” 

Jim paused in his speech, and released Sherlock’s cheek. “You are my husband-”

“Never.”

“Never?” Jim laughed, standing up. He grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him to his feet. With his free hand, Jim ran his fingers down Sherlock’s cheek and throat to grab a fistful of hair. “You are my property. Your brother sold you to me. Everything you have is because of me. You’ll do well to remember that.”

“I don’t care what Mycroft did-” Sherlock’s words broke off into a hiss of pain as Jim tugged the wild curls. 

“You are my husband-”

“I am not your husband. I refuse to marry you,” Sherlock repeated, leaning into the hair pulling that was happening.

“You. Are. My. Property.” Jim said forcefully, glaring hard at Sherlock. Jim released the handful of curls. Jim gently patted Sherlock’s cheek before he shoved his hands into his pockets. “Now, you are going to go into our bedroom and get dressed properly. That means every part of your skin is covered except for your face.”

Sherlock glared hatefully at Jim, but refused to say anything. 

“Unless you feel up to practicing your violin,” Jim smiled widely, then changed his expression to surprise. “Oh, that’s right! All the strings on your violins are broken. Why was that?”

Sherlock exhaled loudly, and used a trembling hand to brush curls out of his face and tuck them behind his ears. “I cut them.” 

“Oh, no. Why would you do that?” Jim asked innocently, crossing his arms with a disappointed look. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, and shook his head. “Because you promised someone that I would play for them without consulting me.”

“Right, of course. That doesn’t sound insane at all. Your husband books you to perform a concert where the Queen herself will be attending, and you decide that it’s beneath you so you cut your strings. What happened to the replacement strings?”

“They were rusted.” 

“How did they get rusted?” Jim asked, with a forced smile. 

“I dropped them in an experiment.” 

Jim uncrossed his arms before he reached out to slap Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock cried out in pain and held his cheek. “Go, dress yourself. I have business to attend too. I expect you to be at sup with your brother. Do not be late.” Jim took a deep breath and took a minute to compose himself. Sternly, he added, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Sherlock managed to say before he rubbed his cheek gently. He sulked out of the room, and into their bedroom. He flopped down on the bed, and sighed loudly. 

While he laid there, he thought about his latest composition getting lost in the rise and fall of it. Time passed while he composed silently. 

Titanic left the harbor and was well out into the ocean when Sherlock came out of his own head. He dressed robotically. With a glance at the clock, he noticed he was late. He pulled his dinner jacket on and dashed out of the room.

Hurriedly, he made his way to the formal dining room. He was running down the steps when he tripped over his shoe laces. He sighed loudly, and moved his lithe body to tie his shoes. 

“Hello,” a low voice said kindly. “May I help you, sir?” 

Sherlock looked up to see who was speaking. A blonde, toned man stood before him. The other man was dressed in well worn, but clean clothing. His eyes seemed to smile at him. “I. I just tripped.” 

The man smiled widely, and knelt down to tie his shoes. Sherlock’s heart pounded in his chest.

“My name is John Watson. Formerly of her Queen’s service.”

“But you’re a physician.” 

“Aye, that I am.”

Sherlock blinked his eyes as he tried to process the amount of information he was obtaining at the moment. 

_ Ex-military. Poor. Gambler. Handsome. Doctor. Irish _

“Who are you?”

John laughed, and patted the top of Sherlock’s shoes. “That’s a question for another day. Anyways, I double knotted those shoes for you.” John stood up, and held his hand out to Sherlock. John pulled Sherlock to his feet and Sherlock came up with a ‘oof.’ “Too bad I don’t have access to a kitchen, I would fatten you up so quickly.”

Sherlock pushed his hair out of his face. “I don’t like food. It slows me down.”

John smirked as he ran his eyes over Sherlock’s body. “Nothing could slow you down, I’m sure.” John’s eyes lingered over Sherlock’s body one more time before he walked up the stairs. 

Sherlock exhaled loudly, and shook his head.  _ Get it together, Holmes. _ He chided himself, as he smoothed out his suit. He shook his head, and headed for the dining room. 

Just outside the doors, he paused to let his breathing catch up with him. Sherlock nodded his head towards the attendant, and tucked his curls behind his ears. Sherlock said softly, “Professor James Morarity’s table.” 

The attendant led him towards the table, and pulled his seat out. “Oh, William, thank you for  _ finally  _ joining us.” 

Sherlock cleared his throat, and placed the napkin on his lap. “I got held up.” 

“You-” Mycroft started, but cut himself off. “I’m so sorry,” Mycroft said as he looked around the table. “My little brother is a bit of a radical.”

Jim smiled brightly at Mycroft, and said in a firm tone, “No one blames you, Mr. Holmes. Some children are just willfill.”

“There!” a poshly dressed man said, as if what Jim was saying was true. “Sometimes young people are no better than children.”

Jim reached out and gave Sherlock’s thigh a hard squeeze. “You know how children are.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth, “I am twenty-eight years old. I am as far from childhood as I can be.” 

Mycroft laughed politely and wiped his mouth. “Sherlock, you are still such a child.” 

Sherlock pushed Jim’s hand off his thigh, and crossed his legs stubbornly. He pulled a dented tin of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lit one, and inhaled happily. 

“Oh, that is a filthy habit!” Someone else exclaimed, waving the smoke away from their face. 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and inhaled deeply. He pulled the cigarette away from his mouth. He opened his mouth to speak, but before words could come out Jim snatched the cigarette out of his hand. Jim placed it in Sherlock’s water cup. “You were instructed to stop, and you didn’t. You are a disobedient little-”

“Lovely ship, isn’t?” One of the women at the table asked, trying to defuse the tension. 

“Oh, absolutely,” Sherlock agreed, tucking his hair behind his ears. “It’s the finest slave ship I’ve ever seen.”

The adults gathered around the table exchanged nervous glances. Jim cleared his throat drawing Sherlock’s face to him. “My darling, you know this is not a slaver.”

“Oh, I apologize. I just assumed because I’m with my jailors and their bodyguard.”

“Enough, Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. “You are embarrassing me and your future husband.”

“Then, I will excuse myself.” Sherlock stood up, and pushed his chair in against the table. He walked out of the dining room.

_ Weirdo. Loser. Fucking morning. Useless. Crazy. _

The quiet insults of his youth floated up to the surface. He took a deep, steadying breath.

_ Genius. Brilliant. Amazing. Bravo! _ Sherlock told himself, allowing the words that his deceased friend used to tell him. 

Sherlock looked around the room to ground himself. There were a lot of objects to see, but none of them made him want to study them. Sherlock took a deep breath, and counted by increments of sevens to focus his mind, but the panicked thoughts wouldn’t stop. 

Sherlock felt his heart racing, and he felt his chest tighten. He gasped like a freshly caught fish.  _ Move! _ His body told him, so he did. He hurriedly walked away from his brother, from the dining room, from  _ Jim _ . He didn’t know where he was going, he just walked.  _ Faster, _ He urged himself, picking up the pace running blindly through the ship. He took a left, then a right, and then a left again. He didn’t know where he was, but he didn’t slow down.

Finally, he burst through a door to the outside of the ship. An icy cold wind slapped him in the face. Only then did he slow down. He took deep calming breaths, and enjoyed the feel of the cold air forcing its way down his throat. 

_ This is not enough…. _ Sherlock said, as he looked around. He saw the railing and ran towards it. He pressed his abdomen against it and bent down to touch his toes. 

“Can I help you?” a voice asked, gently, with just a bit a hint of an Irish accent. 

Sherlock looked at him, and took another deep breath. “Mr. Watson, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look ‘fine’. You’re leaning over the railing.” 

“The pressure,” Sherlock said, as he slowly stood up. He leaned heavily on the railing.

“Gently, lad,” John said, as he aided him standing up. “I don’t need you getting dizzy and falling over.” 

“Why didn’t you become a doctor?” 

“Jezail bullet,” John said, as he slipped his coat off. He wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Fancy a fag?” John asked, slipping Sherlock’s tin out of Sherlock’s pocket.

Sherlock glanced down, and saw John pull two out of the case. Sherlock’s lips curled up into a big smile. “I was told that smoking is disgusting.”

“Well, as a medic, I can heartily agree, but as a human being I beg to differ,” John struck a match and lit the two cigarettes. He handed one to Sherlock, who took it between his fingers and inhaled deeply. 

John followed suit. He picked a small piece of tobacco off his tongue, and glanced up at the taller man. “Do you wanna talk about it?” 

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m a terrible little boy and I can’t do anything to please my brother.” 

John took a deep inhale, and let his eyes roam down Sherlock’s body. “Nothing about you suggests you’re a little boy,” John said in a sultry tone. 

Sherlock tried to swallow his spit and exhale smoke at the same time. He choked. “Pardon me,” Sherlock cleared his throat and said in a partially offended, partially annoyed voice. “Mr. Watson, how dare you presume to know me.”

“I know all about you,” John smiled at him, his cigarette dangling between his lips. 

“I’m not some poor little rich boy. I worked for my money-”

“Yes, I know you did. My Da used to take us to The Langham to see you.” 

“You’ve seen me perform before?”

“Well,” John said a bit guiltily. “I’ve never seen you, but I have heard you. My Da was the janitor.” 

Sherlock nodded his head, and took a deep draught of his cigarette. “Was he there the night my strings broke?” 

John looked at his dark eyes. “I was,” John admitted. “It was the night before I was deployed. I spent hours hiding in the back of the theatre. The security men just overlooked me. I had to hear you play one more time before I died.”

“You didn’t die.”

John grinned widely, stomping out his cigarette. “So I got hit by a bullet, almost died… I had the stupidest thought. Have you ever almost died?” Sherlock nodded his head, but didn’t say anything else. Blue-white smoke clung around the two men. “I thought to myself that I’ve never been to America.” John pulled another cigarette out of the tin. He paused to light his cigarette. “I didn’t think about my ma, I didn’t think about my girl. I thought about all the books I read about America.”

“Why America?” Sherlock asked with a laugh. John pulled his cigarette out of his mouth, and studied Sherlock for a moment. 

John shrugged his shoulders before he flattened out his own collar around Sherlock’s throat. A tense moment passed between the two men. 

“OI!” A crewman shouted, loudly. “You there! Unhand that man!” 

Sherlock gasped, and glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock took a step back subconsciously. John caught his worried look, and glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock,” John said forcefully, dropping his cigarette. “Look at me. I need to finish my exam. When someone falls, a medic has a duty to look the fall victim over and you need to be compliant.”

Sherlock nodded his head, looked into John’s eyes briefly before John’s eyes and hands moved over Sherlock’s body. 

The crewman approached the two men, and shouted at John again. “Step away from that man.” The crewman blew his whistle in short bursts repeatedly. 

John glanced at the crewman. “He is my patient, and I am doing an exam.”

“You are no doctor. You are a third class passenger-”

John said gently, “Look at me. Ignore everyone else. You’re fine. We’re fine. Everything is ok with us.”

“I didn’t fall,” Sherlock said in a quiet voice. 

“That’s what it looked like to me when I walked up on you,” John said in a steady voice. “But you’re not injured… Unless you hurt somewhere you didn’t tell me?”

Sherlock shook his head, and ran his fingers through his curls. “No, I’m not hurt.”

John was grabbed and physically pulled away from Sherlock, but John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock. “Hey! Hey!” He shouted, trying to yank his arm free. 

“Boy,” A sharp voice called out. “What is going on?”

“My name is John Watson. I’m a medic-”

“I fell, Mycie,” Sherlock started, his hand shaking a bit. “I just- I felt sick, and I tried to lean over.” 

“Quiet,” Jim said, staring around the crowd fiercely. He looked at his future husband. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Jim. I’m not. John-” Sherlock stopped himself, and glanced towards John again. John’s eyes had not moved from his. Sherlock tucked his hands into the pocket of the coat. “I fell and John was kind enough to help me.”

Jim turned his gaze towards John, and stared down at him. John returned the look refusing to back down. “Do you often put your hands on another’s man’s husband?”

“In the name of medicine, I absolutely do.”

“Mr. Holmes, will you please take out dear William back to the room?” Jim turned towards Mycroft. “I’ll be there soon.” 

Mycroft nodded his head, and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. “John didn’t hurt me.”

“No, of course not, William,” Mycroft said, soothingly ushering him away. Jim made eye contact with Seb and nodded his head towards the retreating brothers. 

John watched them go with a concerned look.    
  
“Lad,” Jim said sternly. “I don’t believe that William fell. I believe you put him in a compromising-”

“I am a medic. I was examining him,” John said, in an even tone, before he turned away from the other man. 

“You have no idea what i’m capable-”

“You don’t know what I’m capable of. I could absolutely destroy you,” John said, tucking the cigarette tin in his pocket. 

John didn’t glance back at Jim, but he could feel eyes following him. As he was walking through the ship, his fists clenched and unclenched. He managed to make it back to his room, evading the crowd of children that wanted his attention. 

John flopped down on his bed, and started working at his boots. He managed to pull them off, before he managed to burrow under his blankets. He exhaled loudly and pulled the tin out of his pocket. He turned it over in his fingers, staring at it. There was a dent here, and scorch mark here. Next time he saw Sherlock, he’d have to ask him about it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock Holmes laid sprawled out on the empty bed when his brother came into the room. Mycroft sat near Sherlock’s feet. Mycroft gently touched his brother’s stockinged foot. 

“Brother mine,” Mycroft said, gently in a voice full of concern. “Please wake up.”

“Mycie,” A soft sleeping voice responded. “Morning, brother mine.” 

“I was so scared last night. What were you thinking?” 

“It was too heavy,” Sherlock said, rubbing his eyes, stretching his body out. He sat up, tucking his own legs under himself. He grabbed a pillow to hug it tight to his body. 

“What does that even mean, William?” Mycroft asked, as he massaged his own forehead. 

“Like a horse was sitting on my chest.” 

“William!” Mycroft said, sharply. “You aren’t even making sense. You have everything a body would want, and yet,” Mycroft stood up and started to pace around the room. “Yet, you can’t just play nice. You can’t just  _ behave _ until we get to America.”

“I don’t want to marry Jim. He’s not nice.” 

“Who cares if he’s nice?” Mycroft said, turning around to stare at Sherlock. “He’s rich! He likes you, for some unknown reason, he wants you!”

“Mycroft, he’s mean!” Sherlock shouted again, then looked guilty towards the door. 

“They are out!” Mycroft said, hissing through his teeth. “You need to find a way to deal with your lot in life.”

“This is not my life. This is yours! Ever since Mummy died, I’ve been forced to live your life. It’s not fair! I’m a grown man.”

“A grown man?” Mycroft snarled, glaring at his little brother. “You’re a fool! Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you, William.”

“I hate being called ‘William’! I hate it! Go away, Fatcroft! I hate you! I wish you had died instead of Mummy and Daddy!” 

“You don’t mean that!” Mycroft gasped loudly, staring at his brother.

“I do mean it! You’re hateful and ugly and fat and mean! Why don’t you marry Jim since you like him so much?” 

Suddenly the door opened to the suite, and both brothers went silent. Mycroft sat on the bed, and grabbed Sherlock by his arms. “Get yourself together-”

Sherlock wrenched himself free from Mycroft’s grip, and pushed him away. “Don’t you put your hands on me. We are not children.” Sherlock’s lip trembled slightly as he tried to hold tears in. 

Mycroft glanced down to Sherlock’s arms, then back up to Sherlock’s eyes. Sudden realization was written all over Mycroft’s face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Would you have believed me?”

Mycroft scoffed loudly. “Despite what you think, I love you, Locky.” 

Sherlock groaned, and rubbed his eyes to brush tears away. “‘Locky’ is even worse than ‘William’.”

“You are so picky,” Mycroft said, and offered a sad smile to his brother. “We’ll fix this, ok? I don’t know how, but we’ll fix it. I promise you that.” 

Sherlock nodded his head, before his own name floated into him. 

“William, are you awake yet? Mr. Moran brought up coffee and breakfast.” 

“We’ll be out straight away, Mr. Morarity. I was just waking William up.”

“Oh, Mr. Holmes!” Jim said, as he appeared in the door frame. “I didn’t realize that you were in here. Don’t worry, though! Mr. Moran brought enough food for all of us.” 

“I would love some coffee. William is such a hard boy to wake up.” 

“I’m awake,” Sherlock said, ruffling his curls. 

Jim’s eyes raked over whatever flesh Sherlock was showing. Sherlock suppressed a shudder. “Mr. Holmes?” Jim asked, holding his arm out to Mycroft.

“Do hurry up, William.” 

Sherlock sighed loudly. “Go away, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighed, then glanced at Jim. “What will we do with him?”

Jim laughed, and kindly patted Mycroft’s arm. “I’ll straighten him out.” 

Sherlock made a face as the two men left his room. He put the pillow to the side, and stretched his body out again. He grabbed the white sheet off the bed and wrapped it around himself. He shuffled out to the dining area. 

Jim, Mycroft, and Seb were all in conversation when Sherlock walked out. They all stopped speaking as they saw this practically naked man enter the room. Sherlock yawned, and slouched into the empty chair at the table. 

Mycroft pointedly ignored it, and poured his brother some coffee. “What are you planning for today, Mr. Moriarity?”

“I was invited to take a walk with one of the WhiteStar officials, but I told them absolutely no shop talk. I’m on a holiday from the steel factories.” 

“That sounds splendid.” 

“William, will you join me?” Jim asked in a tone that suggested he had no choice in the matter. 

“That sounds lovely,” Sherlock said, smiling at Jim over his coffee mug. 

“Don’t forget your jacket, William,” Jim said, as he took a sip of coffee. Sherlock nodded his head to show he understood. Jim turned his attention to Mycroft. “What will you do, Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft smiled briefly. “I have plans with Mr. Lestrade from last night. He invited me to join him at a lecture.”

“Mr. Lestrade?” Jim asked, coyly. “The silver haired gent that is with Molly Brown?” 

“He’s just a travel companion,” Mycroft protested idly. 

“Brother mine, do I hear wedding bells?” 

“Oh, Wil-Sherlock!” Mycroft said, with a gasp. “Never in a hundred years.”

“I don’t know, brother mine, maybe getting you a husband will relax you a bit.” 

“Are you playing match-maker now, William?” Jim said, trying not to smile. 

“Oh, no, I just want Mycie as happy as we are, Jim.” Sherlock said, sipping his coffee. The rest of the table grew quiet, and Sherlock continued to sip his coffee. “Is no one going to mention that I’m in a bed sheet?”

“Oh, we noticed darling,” Jim said, placing his fork down on his plate. “I’m not embarrassed about you being naked. Why don’t you go walk the deck naked?”

“Oh, I would love to do that!”

“You won’t,” Jim countered. 

“I might,” Sherlock said steadily. “Who’s going to stop me?”

“Your brother will.” 

Mycroft glanced at his brother, and smirked. “I dare you to go on the deck in your sheet.”

Sherlock laughed loudly, and snagged a piece of toast. “Later, brother mine.” 

  
  
  
  


Sherlock tucked his arm through Jim’s offered one, and they strolled around the deck. Jim was engaging the WhiteStar official in conversation. Sherlock occupied his mind by composing as they walked. Mr. Ismay pointed out certain design features as they moved throughout the ship. Jim kept up the constant flow of conversation until Sherlock paused for a minute. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two teenage lads running and pushing each other. “Johnny! Don’t tell Mummy! I was only having fun.”

Sherlock smiled at the mention of ‘Johnny,’ but shook his head swiftly before he said, “Jim, darling, you were correct. I should have brought a coat.”

“Oh, take mine, William.” 

Sherlock laughed a bit, “I’m too tall for your clothing.” 

Jim glanced embarrassedly at Mr. Ismay. He shook his head as if to tell him ‘Nothing to worry about.’ 

“So, I’ll just head back to the rooms. I’ll meet you in the dining room.” 

“William, I should walk you back-”

“Mr. Ismay, please pardon me,” Sherlock said, holding his hand out to shake the other man’s hand. “Jim, I’ll see you later,” Sherlock said before he turned away to head back the way they had come. 

Sherlock ducked into a door, and glanced out the window behind him. He watched Jim and Mr. Ismay walk away from him. He took a deep breath before he headed in the opposite direction from his fiance. 

Sherlock hurried through the crowded deck, and ducked into a door. He took a moment and looked around. Glancing through a window, he saw his brother and his friend. He turned his face away from them and walked into someone. 

“Well, hello there, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock gasped, and tried to right himself without falling over. “John!” Sherlock gasped loudly. 

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for you, actually. I have this,” John held up a cigarette. “I may have nicked a few.” 

“A few?” Sherlock smirked, brushing his curls off his forehead. 

John laughed, and pulled the battered tin from his pocket. “I swear it was only four or five.”

Sherlock laughed again, and took the tin back from John. “Thank you for keeping that safe for me.”

“Oh, it was nothing.”

Sherlock ran his fingers fondly over the tin before he tucked it into his pocket. “How are you spending your time today?”

John grinned widely. “I was just avoiding the children-”

“Children?” Sherlock asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

John grinned, “Can I bum a fag?”

“Tell me about the children!”

John laughed, and shook his head. Sherlock glanced over John’s shoulders and spotted two armchairs. Sherlock dragged him over to the chairs. Sherlock plopped down in one gracelessly and dug in his pocket for his tin. As he fiddled with the tin, Sherlock noticed the sun streaming though the window, dust motes, and just highlighted John’s hair slightly. 

“Tell me about the children,” Sherlock insisted, as he tried to stop admiring John. 

“Well, yesterday, after we got on board, I was singing to myself in my room-”

“You have a room?” Sherlock asked, as he lit two cigarettes. 

“Of course I do. Where do you think I’m staying?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, and held out a lit cigarette for John. John took it, and for just a moment his fingers lingered on Sherlock’s. Sherlock stared at the slight touch, and swallowed hard. He pulled his own fingers back, and pulled his cigarette out of his mouth. 

“Rats,” Sherlock managed to say.

“Pardon?” John asked, as blue-white smoke funneled out his nose. 

“You must have a lot of rats.” 

John laughed, and pulled the cigarette out of his mouth. “Not so many as you would think.” 

“You were telling me about the children,” Sherlock said in a reminding tone. 

“Oh, they heard me singing, and asked me to sing-”

“You sing?” Shock colored Sherlock’s tone, and his face too. 

A mischievous smile played on John’s features. “Yes, us lower class lads do have some talent too.”

Sherlock shook his head, feeling the misstep harder than he should. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

John stared hard at Sherlock, his mind reeling. The moment hung tense in the air and Sherlock was quickly replaying the conversation 

Finally, John burst out into loud laughter. It was the sort of noise that Sherlock couldn’t help but join in with. Sherlock laughed long and hard. The sort of laughter where you cry from laughing so hard. 

Later, when he thought of that moment, he realized he hadn’t laughed like that since he had been a child at his Daddy’s knee. But at the time, he didn’t think that. He thought about how the sunshine coming in the window played on John’s face and how John got ash everywhere as he tried to calm himself down. 

John’s eyes had tears, and he wiped them delicately after sticking his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “I was singing and making my bed when I turned around surrounded by a whole brood of children. They started shouting different songs titles out. So I sang for them and with them. Then someone brought a fiddle.”

“A fiddle?” Sherlock’s eyes lit up. 

“Oh,” John smiled before he added, “It’s an instrument, you posh boy. Maybe not as great as a violin.”

“I know what a fiddle is!” Sherlock ruffled his curls.

“Did you?” John asked, a playful look in his eyes.

“Are you always happy?” Sherlock asked him in a snotty tone.

“Oh, I’m not happy. Don’t be stupid. It’s easier to fool those around you when you pretend to be a simpleton.” 

“Why do you have to fool anyone?” 

“I was a medic. If you were my enemy, who would you attack?” 

“Your enemy wouldn’t know that,” Sherlock said in a logical tone, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray. 

“They would. Medics wear an armband.”

“Armbands only have to be worn. Why don’t you wear it inside your jacket?” 

John paused a moment, trying to think of a loop hole to the loop holery. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Of course you hadn’t. You’re just a pretty face, not the brains.”

“Oh, I assume you’re the brains?” 

“Nope, I’m the money. Guess we’ll have to make another friend to think for us.”

John grinned widely. “We’re friends?”

“I don’t really have friends,” Sherlock shrugged, lounging back in his chair. “I’ve been performing since I was four.” 

“Since you were four?” 

“Daddy taught me how to read music when I was three and a half. Then he gave me music to read. So I would practice on the violin all the time. I had this child size one, and it was like breathing to me. I would play for my parents’ friends. One of Mummy’s friends got me on several stages and it was history from there.”

“Did you enjoy it?” John asked, snubbing his own cigarette out. 

“Do you want a drink? I could go for som-”

“Excuse me, posh boy. What kind of man do you think I am?” 

“Pardon?” Sherlock asked, wondering if he finally went too far. 

“Are you a gentleman of a certain persuasion?” 

“What does that mean?” 

John shook his head, “well then, nevermind. Let’s go get a drink.” 

“I’m not so sure what you mean when you say “certain persuasion.” I prefer the company of men if that’s what you mean.” 

“Everyone prefers men. We’re the superior sex so they say,” John said, leaning forward and crossing his legs. “But, let me tell you I’ve seen women deliver babies with ease compared to a man getting his limb sawed off.” 

“That’s barbarism!” Sherlock said, sounding more like Mycroft than ever before. “I mean, sawing off limbs.” 

“Would you prefer that I dig in your muscle and fat to pull out a live bullet?”

Sherlock thought about that for a moment and then shook his head to indicate ‘no.’ “Although, there’s been some times when I had cocaine-”

“You do cocaine?” 

“I’ve done cocaine, but Mycie thinks it dulls my brain. He wants me to get back to playing the violin, but I’m not interested.”

John nodded his head, as he pulled the door open. Sherlock walked through, and flagged down an attendant. “I need two glasses of something cold to drink.” The other man nodded, and disappeared out of site. Sherlock sat down on the nearest deck chair, and John joined him. 

“If you’re not interested in playing the violin, what are you interested in?” 

“Solving crime.”

John looked at him with a big smile. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Sherlock said. “A lot of police work in London was worthless. They would always blame someone but they were never truly guilty.” 

“You could make anything up right now, and I would believe you-”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m too old and boring-”

“Old? Boring? Are you talking about yourself or my brother?” 

John’s face lit up with glee. “Myself.”

Sherlock shook his head, and his curls bounced into his face. “You aren’t old or boring at all, John Watson. You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met. You have the bearing of a soldier, but not the attitude. You counter my-” Sherlock cut himself off as the attendant brought back cold beers. 

Sherlock took them both, and smiled at the man. He handed one to John, then pulled out his own wallet. He handed the man a few pounds, then stuffed his wallet away. 

“Ah, ta, then, Sherlock,” John said, holding his glass up to clink against Sherlock’s. 

“You counter my points with both practical knowledge and logic. You are smarter than you pretend to be, and you absolutely are charming,” Sherlock concluded before he took a large gulp of beer.

John’s smile disappeared into his cup of beer too. Once he took a draught, “am I charming? I’ve always been called arrogant and rude.” 

Sherlock smiled widely, as he took another sip of beer. He was mid gulp when he heard a loud hiss of, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes! What are you doing?” Sherlock spit beer out, and wiped his lips on the collar of his shirt.

“Shit, Myc!”

Mycroft’s eyes flashed with anger, and he pulled his brother to his feet. “You are supposed to be in the room!”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “I got lost. John found me.” 

Mycroft sighed before he turned to the man with him. “This is my little brother, Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock, this is Constable Gregory Lestrade.” 

“Greg is fine,” Greg reminded him. “I’m on vacation.”

John stood up, and started to edge away. Sherlock grabbed his elbow, and squeezed. “This is Mr. John Watson. He saved my life last night.”

“Oh, that is amazing!” Greg said, holding his hand out to shake John’s hand. “You’ve got to join us tonight at dinner.”

“Oh,” John started, then shook his head. “I appreciate the offer-”

“Please, John,” Sherlock said with a bit of a whine. 

John looked at Sherlock, then back to Greg. He took a deep breath, then forced a smile. “I would love to join you for dinner.” 

“Well, that settles it, lads,” Greg said with forced cheerfulness. He grabbed John’s arm and pulled him away from the brothers. “Goodbye, lads! See you later!” 

Greg dragged John away, and the two brothers stood together. Sherlock kept his eyes on John’s retreating back. “You told him,” Sherlock said, half-accusingly, half amused. 

“I told you I would fix this,” Mycroft said, as he walked Greg walk away.

“I supposed this has nothing to do with your crush on him?”

“You’re a deplorable brother.” 

“You’re worse,” Sherlock smiled widely, before he slung his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders. 

Mycroft shrugged out of the hug, and rolled his eyes. “Come along, Sherlock. We need to prepare for our meal.” 


End file.
